


A Misunderstanding

by ThunderCant



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Gen, Manhandling, Mild Gore, Misunderstandings, Silly, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 15:06:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17706569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThunderCant/pseuds/ThunderCant
Summary: The T-103 series is supposed to be as intelligent as a human. This does not mean the T-103 understands what a euphemism is.





	A Misunderstanding

**Author's Note:**

> Not porn but shamelessly self-indulgent SO

 

 _Take care of any witnesses_.

It was the final order he’d received before being dropped into Raccoon City, and the Tyrant turned it over in his head like an archaeologist examining a fragment of pottery. Nothing in his body was designed for care. He was a blunt instrument, something to be thrown at a wall until it crumbled. The other horrors had crumpled under his grip like paper, and the researchers had nodded at each other, before scheduling the T-103 models for air drop.

But the voice from the cockpit had said, _‘take care of any witnesses.’_

It was all rather confusing. Another test, perhaps? To see how well the T-103 models would function alongside fragile humans? There was no reason that couldn’t be performed in a lab.

He frowned and scanned the area. Shuffling zombies, which were shambling towards the sound of gunshots, their necks craned forwards like dogs scenting the air. He caught it himself. Blood. Some burning flesh. There were so many corpses around that it was impossible to tell which were fresh and which were not. The zombies didn’t help, still bleeding themselves.

But perhaps they could smell something he couldn’t. Could hear the frantic heartbeat of things that were still alive.

He slipped past them and opened the door, crouching through. It was an interesting building. Smaller than the facilities, to the point where his hat scraped the ceilings in parts. The walls were easily broken- no wonder it had been overrun. There weren’t nearly enough safeguards. Even a human with some weapons could have ruined the interior.

The zombies followed, pacing along awkwardly, speeding up or slowing down as noises crashed through the station. A shot here, a hissing pipe there- they were creatures of instinct, looking for a meal.

He stopped, and he listened.

Thump thump thump.

Too rhythmic to be a zombie. Not nearly enough scratching for a licker.

There was someone above him.

He sped up. His steps echoed out, ringing against the ruined walls. The sounds paused.

Then it picked up again, faster. Away from him.

Hm. Well. That was understandable. Living things generally wanted to keep living. They would run at the first hint of danger, especially if they were already aroused and pumped up with adrenaline.

He’d have to be careful.

 

The good news was that there were a thousand different ways around the station, even if he didn’t just smash through a wall. Whoever had designed it must have worked as a lab-technician, designing mazes for rats, because nothing was simple.

Though the footprints in the blood made it a little easier to track his target. The footprints and the zombies, that were scrambling on the ground with most of their legs bending in strange ways. They snapped at his heels as he walked past. Whoever was up here had been pragmatic. He nodded to himself, satisfied.

The steps have stopped again.

That’s when he heard it. The creaking and scratching. He forced himself to tread lightly.

Lickers wouldn’t be a problem for him, but they were attracted to noise. They’d charge. That would reflect poorly on him, especially if it was an exercise in…taking care.

What a strange order.

At the end of the corridor, beyond the twisted licker, there was a human. About average size, and young if the Tyrant had to guess. Desperately trying to get his breathing under control, torso shuddering, and barely paying attention to him.

A survivor. A witness.

The Tyrant wanted to crush him. Hold him until all his bones cracked and he was useless.

But that was not the mission. He stepped forwards, loud.

Sure enough, the licker came running, and met a messy end as he crushed its head in his hand.

The survivor’s gun clicked. The rest of him was quaking, but he was holding his aim steady as could be. Aimed at the head.

Wide eyed, shaking, and panting. There was a fair chance that he’d just send the bullet flying.

The Tyrant frowned, unmoving, and took a moment to really examine the survivor. Definitely young, trained to handle a weapon but still a little uncertain. Fearful. Heart pounding, loud enough for him to feel in his bones.

The gun wouldn’t be enough to slow him down, not unless he hit headshots, consistently. And he needed a closer look, if he wanted to determine how to care for _this_ survivor.

At the first step, the young man shouted, “Don’t move!”

At the second, a bullet knocked his hat off.

They both paused. The Tyrant scowled.

“Oh fuck,” said the survivor, before sprinting off. The Tyrant picked up his hat, dusting it off and gave chase.

He was a fast little thing, and rude to boot. But there was only so much he could do with his limited stride. He had been tired even before the Tyrant showed up.

And the Tyrant had much, much longer legs.

It took all of ten seconds.

He grabbed the survivor by his collar, hauling him backwards. The young man dug his heels in, which did exactly nothing.

“Get off me!”

He kicked out, furiously. The Tyrant stayed still. It wouldn’t take long for the adrenaline to die down. It never did.

“Get…off.”

His voice quieted anyway, until he was left squirming and squinting up. The Tyrant finally let go of his shirt, and the young man fell with an ‘oof’.

He had another urge to grab him up and hold him until he exploded. It was getting irritating.

“Ow…”

Take care of the witnesses. Right. He crouched down, ignoring the squawk as he took the witness’ chin in his hand and turned his face this way and that. No major gashes. Bruising on his neck, but no bites.

It looked like he’d settled down now, still on the ground, but his eyes flicked urgently whenever the Tyrant moved.

The Tyrant nodded, satisfied. No infection. With a small grunt, he hefted the young man up and over his shoulder, like he was carrying a sack of potatoes.

“What- hey! I can- I can walk, you know!”

Though perhaps he was a bit more annoying than a sack of potatoes. And rude.

He raised a palm up.

“Oh don’t you _dare_ -“

_Slap._

“Ow!”

_Slap._

He groaned and finally slumped over, relaxing into the carry. That was better.

“Was that about the hat? Look, if it’s about the hat, I was _aiming_ for your head-“

Distantly, the Tyrant wondered if he could find some duct tape to shut the guy up. If nothing else, it would make it easier to find anyone else he was supposed to take care of…

 

Annette Birkin had not been having a good day.

Actually, she’d been having one of the worst days of her life. Shot, thrown about by various monsters of her own making, and now that son of a bitch Ada Wong was drawing ever closer.

She had to do something. Get rid of the G-virus.

A door behind her hissed, and she spun around, gun at the ready.

There was a Tyrant. Carrying a police officer. Carrying a very red police officer.

“For the last time, can you _please_ put me down when we go through doors? You give me vertigo every time you have to duck, you great lug.”

She aimed for its head. The policeman held up his hands.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you. Trenchy gets mad if anyone fucks with his hat.”

Annette sputtered. This wasn’t happening. People didn’t _nickname_ Tyrants. They didn’t get carried around by Tyrants either, and they definitely didn’t live long enough to shoot parts of their covert disguise and _live_.

“Yeah, can you let me through? I’m about twenty seconds away from a panic attack with this guy, at all times, and I really want to get back to my new life as a hick in the middle of Spain or something.”

The Tyrant grunted. It almost sounded like a laugh. Anette threw her hands up in the air.

A boy and his Tyrant monster. Why not. But if there was this one, then…

“Mom!”

“Leon! And…big guy!”

“Mrph.”

She really didn’t want to turn around. She didn’t want to see her daughter, or the girl with her daughter, and the inevitable hell-beast they were riding on. There wasn’t much that she wanted to do outside of throwing herself off the nearest high thing.

Fuck it.

“Please tell me that one doesn’t have a nickname too.”

“Why?” Said the young man, with a hint of mirth, “Do you have something in mind for Trenchy two-point-0?”


End file.
